Heart
by MandaPanda2
Summary: A one part story from Olivia's point of view after she comes home from the cruise.


Disclaimer: All characters (unless otherwise specified) belong to Aaron Spelling, E. Duke Vincent, Gary Tomlin, NBC, et al and are used here strictly for non-profit entertainment purposes. Rating: PG 14  
Genre: Angst  
Spoilers: Entire series, just to be safe…though I have played with canon just a tad bit.  
Summary: A one-part story from Olivia's p.o.v after she comes home from the cruise.

* * *

The leather of the back seat is a comfort. I lean back and tap my fingers anxiously on the polished wood armrest. The tap of my fingernails resonates through the Lincoln and I turn my gaze to the lightly tinted window. Home. Palm lined streets in front of large homes pass by as Bryan slowly cruises through the streets. The car engine is silent yet powerful, a contained monster beneath the hood of the car that's taking me home. 

Sort of like Gregory: silent and powerful.

I bite my lip and rub my forehead tiredly. He didn't call me. Not once while I was away. The start of a headache had been throbbing behind my eye since I returned to the same time zone as him. And now, less than ten minutes from my home and Gregory, the pounding pain is released in my head. My eyes narrow as the pangs shoot down my neck and I roll my shoulders uncomfortably.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see it go by. I sat up quickly and opened my mouth to get Bryan's attention when he kept driving instead of turning into the drive. And then I remember. The large, three story mansion that was my home for the better half of my adult life doesn't belong to us anymore. Gregory sold One Ocean Avenue. Got rid of it and moved us up the beach after our baby di-

With a shuddering sigh, I sat back and twisted the large pear shaped diamond on my left hand. He was so angry with me when I left. The angriest I had ever seen him. And why shouldn't he be angry? I killed our baby. And then, I had him cremated. I squeezed my eyes shut and forced down the sob in my throat. My hand twitched as I fingered the necklace around my throat.

Three months. After three months, the hurt in my chest was still there. Clenching my heart and squeezing out all of the happiness that was once so abundant. When life was wonderful and there was a reason for getting up in the morning. When Gregory loved me.

His eyes blazed with anger the last time I saw him. His chest was heaving with rage after he read in my medical file that I had signed the order of cremation. The way that his fingers curled around the folder, the papers wrinkling within his clenched hands. The way he looked up slowly before he threw the folder at my feet. His eyes were dark, bottomless pools of hatred that zeroed in on me. The storm of words he unleashed fell on deaf ears. I couldn't hear anything that he was saying other than his growl: "You killed my son." Those four words echoed in my head. You. Killed. My. Son.

I did kill our son, didn't I? Everyone said I did. But then again, it really didn't matter what anyone else thought. It never did. It only mattered what Gregory thought. It only _ever_ mattered what Gregory thought. And he thought I killed our sweet baby. Therefore, it must be so.

"I kill- killed my baby," I whisper to myself as I blink away a tear. A rock of emotion materialized in my throat and I tried to swallow past it. The vise around my heart tightened as it beat faster, as if to protect itself from me. Despite the sun warming the car, I shiver. A cold spell that sweeps through my heart and I rub my hands together for heat.

Why did it feel so wrong? Our baby was supposed to be our new beginning. He symbolized the trials that we overcame over the past decade. And he was the child of our love. How could I kill something born of our love? And I heard him. I remember that he cried. Gregory said he didn't, that he was born dead. But I heard him. A squawking cry that rang out from his tiny lungs. I heard him. He didn't believe me, but I did.

It's been three months. Three long months that we've been apart. We should be raising our baby together. We should be together. Our pain is mutual. He needs me. He needs me the same way that I need him. This same agony nearly destroyed us the first time. I can't go through that again. I need him too much.

The knock on the car window jolts me and I look over as Bryan opens the backdoor. "Welcome home, Mrs. Richards." He helps me out of the car and goes around to the trunk for my suitcase.

The Mediterranean style mansion looms in front of me and I hesitate for a moment before I start walking to the front door. The wind breezes across the wide cobblestone driveway carrying with it the perfume of the ocean. It stirs my hair and the hem of my knee length skirt. The palm frond rustles as I stop before the wood door, my fingers wrapped around the handle. I press down and slowly open the door.

My heels click on the Italian marble as I walk into the foyer and look around. The large spray of flowers in the crystal vase on the round table catches my eye. Yellow roses. My favorites. The petals are soft beneath my fingers as I touch them gingerly. I sigh and turn to the stairs, glancing into the quiet living room for a moment. The only thing I want to do now is unpack and collapse into my bed.

As I near the second floor landing, I glance down at my watch. Gregory's still at work. My husband is nothing if not a creature of habit. When the going gets tough, he gets going to the office. I shake my head and whisper, "And when the going gets tough, _you_ get drunk." My bag falls from my hand and lands on the carpet runner with a soft thud. I bury my hands in my face and shudder. Neither of us knows how to deal with our pain well. With a deep exhale, my hands fall away and I kneel down for my bag. "That has to change," I promise myself.

The master bedroom is at the end of the hall. I remember that much about the new house. When we moved in, Gregory pointed out the view of the beach from the large windows. I liked the view from our old house better. This is house is cold. "We've got no memories here," I complained softly. He had clasped my shoulders from behind and whispered in my ear, "We'll make new memories…and leave the unpleasant ones behind." He kissed the side of my head and took my hand, pulling me away from the window to show me the rest of the house.

I grab the doorknob and turn it, pushing the door open. The drapes are pulled back from the windows that Gregory and I stood at three months ago and the room is flooded with sunlight. Enough light to see that the bed is already occupied. They are too caught up in each other to notice me in the doorway. And I suddenly find it hard to breathe. That mop of red hair is unmistakable. I gasp and the bag falls from my hand again, smacking down on the tile floor of the bedroom. My fingers rest at the base of my throat, above my suddenly tight chest. An "oh God" falls from my lips as the air rushes out of my lungs and my heart slows to what feels like a stop. There's something to be said for tragedy: it rips our hearts out.

Gregory rolls off her and sits up, his eyes locked on me. "Olivia," he whispers.

My chin quivers and I tighten my grip around the doorknob as my other hand flutters nervously against my neck. Annie sits up, the silk sheet tucked against her chest. She smirks at me and I see something glint in her eyes. Revenge? Or maybe satisfaction, now that she's taken the one haven I had in this cruel world?

He's reaching for his robe as I let go of the doorknob. The bile rises in my throat and I realize I can't do this. I turn away from the horror in the bedroom and walk quickly down the hallway, ignoring his call for me. My legs are like lead and I grab the railing as my feet stumble down the stairs. The yellow roses are still there on the table, their light scent wafting through the foyer. I throw open the front door at the same moment Gregory grabs my arm and wrenches me around to face him.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming home?" he murmurs. His fingers wrap around my arm as he pulls me closer to him. Is that sadness in his eyes? Or just guilt because he was caught? Our affairs were nearly as infamous as our turbulent relationship. Petty meaningless romps with other partners as we tried to hurt each other as much as we could. Why does this hurt more than any other affair either of us ever had?

Because it's the death of our new beginning all over again. Any hope we had for the future was dead and buried. Just like our baby. All our vows, all our promises of commitment and eternal love went up in a puff of smoke, leaving behind nothing but ashes.

Movement at top of the stairway catches my eye and I look up. Annie's hand rests casually on the top of the railing. One of my robes is wrapped around her body as she looks down smugly at me. The silk of the robe was dyed deep shades of red, yellow, and orange. Gregory always loved me in that robe. He said it reminded him of when we watched the sunsets from the terrace of our honeymoon suite in Florence. She tilts her head and leans against the banister as she crosses her arms against her chest. Waiting to see what happens next. That little whore.

"Why?" I snap, drawing anger from the hurt that is suffocating me. "Why? What for? So you could've postponed your tryst?" I shake off his touch and back away from him. "What for?" I whisper.

"Oliv-"

"Don't," I interrupt. I hold up my hand to silence him and notice it shakes. Damn. "Just…don't." I turn away from those dark brown eyes that I love and start to walk through the door.

Gregory just won't give up. Eternally fighting to the bitter end. He grabs me and pulls me back, his chest pressed against me from behind. My eyes close and he turns slightly, his face lost in my dark hair. How many times have we done this? Stood together like this? We've done it forever. Forever has to end sometime.

I jut my shoulders, pushing him away. With a deep breath, I pass through the door and close it quietly behind me. Closing the door on Gregory. Closing the door on our marriage. Closing the door on our life together. It started with such passion and the excitement of youth. And now here we are. Two people in our forties and the door quietly closing.

There's something to be said for tragedy.

_**END. **_


End file.
